Sick fic 2
by Guinevere81
Summary: John doesn't feel too good and being locked in a room at the bottom of the British library without any means to contact the outside world doesn't help matters.
1. Chapter 1

John wasn't feeling great as he returned home on the Thursday evening. His stomach hurt annoyingly and he wondered slightly if he was starting to get ulcers from stressing about Sherlock's safety all the time. He could feel the muscles in his shoulder becoming tense as his body fought the slowly building discomfort in his stomach and he knew there and then that he would not get much sleep. He really hoped that he wasn't coming down with a stomach bug but he feared he may not be so lucky.

Sherlock who rarely ate if he could avoid it did not notice when John forewent dinner and retired to his room for an early night.

Next morning brought John no reprieve as he woke up from a fitful sleep feeling tense and slightly nauseous. Going downstairs he found Sherlock in the same position where he had left him. Only the change of clothes suggested that he had not spent the whole night in his chair with his laptop perched on his knees.

He didn't look up as John shuffled into the room, he merely held out his mug in silent anticipation. It had become something of a ritual and since John had let it he was hardly in a position to complain. He made the tea and handed the mug to Sherlock before sitting down in his own chair with a grunt.

'You alright John?' Sherlock asked but his eyes did not leave the laptop.

'Fine.' John mumbled 'I just have the mother of all stomach-aches. Probably ate something iffy yesterday.'

'Iffy?' Sherlock questioned with a frown. 'Interesting choice of vocabulary.'

John didn't answer. Instead he sat watching Sherlock type away at his computer while he himself sulked, feeling rather sorry for himself.

Sherlock bounced from his chair a few minutes later with a self-satisfied grin. 'I know where they'll go next. Come on John, we're going out.' He snapped and John was relieved that he had made the effort to shower and change before going in to greet his flatmate.

John breathed a sigh of frustration at the lack of information. 'I don't expect you to tell me how you deduced where the murderers will be going but would you at least tell me where we will be heading so that I can text Lestrade?' He asked as he got up and shrugged into his coat.

'British library, but you won't be texting Lestrade' Sherlock stated, already halfway down the stairs.

'You can't tell me who I can and cannot text. It's his case so we need to keep him updated' John argued, but Sherlock was not touched at all by John's snappy tone. He merely continued down the stairs stopping briefly at the bottom to wait for John to catch up.

'You are quite correct. But since I used your phone battery for an experiment last night you currently have no means with which to text.' Sherlock sounded almost cheerful which only increased John's frustration.

'Sherlock, why couldn't you use your own phone?' he protested as he fished the obviously dead phone out his pocket.

'I did…' Sherlock confirmed 'but I needed a second try to calibrate my result.' He held the door open to John as he waved at an approaching taxi.

They rode in silence. John was feeling horrid and now he could add frustration to the list of things that were wrong with this day.

Sherlock was deep in thought and oblivious to his flatmate.

Gaining access to the rare books department proved easier than John would have anticipated. Sherlock produced a pass which John suspected he might actually have pickpocketed someone to get to and within minutes they were inside a temperature controlled room filled with rows upon rows of old volumes.

Sherlock calmly sat down and steepled his fingers under his chin.

After a few minutes of silence John sat down opposite him. 'So are you going to tell me what we're doing here?' he asked tiredly.

'Waiting.' Came Sherlock's curt reply.

'And what pray, are we waiting for?' John really did not want to be there any longer than was strictly necessary. He was fighting an internal battle with his stomach which seemed to be alternating between nausea and outright pain, something which was beginning to worry him slightly.

'The murderers aren't primarily murderers. They're thieves and that is what they are after. ' Sherlock informed pointing to a class case against the wall.

John looked at the illuminated manuscript in the case and nodded as he settled down to wait. There was no real point questioning Sherlock's deductions, he knew after all that they would turn out to be right.


	2. Chapter 2

Two hours later they were still waiting. No one had come but John had begun to shiver slightly and dreading to confirm his suspicions he pressed hard against his lower abdomen and released it quickly. The flash of pain that followed made him bite his tongue to keep from crying out. He took a few breaths to compose himself and looked over at Sherlock.

'Sherlock, I'm going to go upstairs and call Lestrade from a landline so that he can come over and wait with you. I'm not feeling great and I need to go.'

Sherlock frowned and moved around the table to crouch down at John's side. Placing a hand against John's forehead, he nodded. 'You have a fever' he stated unnecessarily.

'Brilliant deduction Sherlock' John gave him a weak smile 'I also have abdominal pain and nausea and it is getting worse. There's a very real chance that I have appendicitis and I would really like to go and have it taken care of sooner rather than later.'

Sherlock remained in place watching his slightly shivering friend and weighing his options. He knew that the kind thing to do would be to go with John and call Lestrade to take over the watch but he hates the idea of not being there if the murderers/thieves turn up.

'John will you be alright if I…' He never got the chance to finish the sentence for at that moment the door flew open and three men enter.

Sherlock was caught off guard but he was nonetheless on his feet and facing the criminals within seconds. Luckily only one of them was holding a gun and Sherlock knocked it out of his hand with practiced ease. Fighting villains was second nature to Sherlock and with John's help overpowering the three men should have been quite doable. However, Sherlock had not factored in John being held back by illness. Now he found himself fighting two men singlehanded and it was proving harder and harder.

A well aimed punch caught him across the cheek and he was knocked off balance. Stumbling to his knees he found his hands being wrenched back and restrained. He knew that he was at least temporarily defeated and looked over to see if John had fared any better.

He had not. He lay curled up in a foetal position, not even fighting back as the third man kicked him over and over.

'Leave him alone' Sherlock shouted and tried to lunge forward. Strong hands held him in place and forced his arms upward until it forced him to lean forward to prevent it from hurting.

Whether it had anything to do with Sherlock's shouting or not the man stopped his assault on John and stood panting. A thick silence settled over the room as they all caught their breaths and took stock of the situation.

One of the men retrieved the gun and pointed it at Sherlock. 'Should we kill them?' he asked his two companions.

'Yes.' The man towering over John grinned, looking very pleased. He poked John hard in the back with his foot at which John whimpered, gagged, and the threw up his morning tea, the only thing he had ingested since the previous day.

Sherlock wanted desperately to go to him, to check him over and find out what damage had been done to his friend. He knew that throwing up was a bad sign, it probably meant that John's self-diagnosis was rapidly proving both true and increasingly more alarming.

'No!' came the stern demand from the man who was pinning Sherlock down. 'That won't be necessary. We'll tie them up and leave them here. We'll have time to get away.' His voice was calm and authoritative. 'This one is chummy with the police. If we kill them they'll only put more manpower on finding us.'

John uncurled slightly lifting is head from the floor to look at Sherlock. His features were tight with held back pain, his eyes tired but focused on Sherlock's with calm determination.

'What the hell are we supposed to tie them with?' asked John's tormentor. He obviously was not the brain behind the heist Sherlock thought as he listened to the man behind him sighing in frustration

'Use your imagination' the man behind Sherlock growled. Sherlock's mind swirled with possible plans for escape but with the gun pointed at his head and John looking like he was about to pass out anything he could come up with seemed doomed to fail.

'Try their shoelaces, or rip their clothing, either should work.' The man with the gun suggested 'And neither of you try anything or you'll get a bullet in your brain' he continued and Sherlock could feel his arms being released and the man behind him fumbling with his shoelaces.

There was a ripping sound from across the room as John's sweater was torn and the burly man above him started to pull threads from it. John struggled to sit up and held out his hands to be bound, stoically accepting their situation.

'Get up and sit in the chair' the man above Sherlock sternly ordered and he grudgingly obeyed, allowing the man to tie him to the chair using his own shoelaces.

He watched as John was hauled into another chair and fastened to it with length upon length of wool from his own sweater which was now in shreds. His face was ghostly white and he was visibly trembling by now.

'He's sick.' Sherlock argued 'if you leave us trapped down here and he dies it will be tantamount to murder.' Sherlock's voice was calm and factual, betraying none of the worry that was gathering at the pit of his stomach.

The leader of the group moved around from behind Sherlock and looked down at him with a satisfied grin.' Nope, it will be very convenient natural causes.' He said with a smug even voice. Then he strode across the room lifted a chair and smashed it into the glass display case making shards of broken glass dance across the floor. He pulled out the manuscript and stuffed it unceremoniously into his backpack.

Let's go, he indicated to his companions before turning to Sherlock one last time. 'Someone will find you soon enough, they'll come to throw you out by closing time at the latest.' He said and it was hard to tell if his words were meant to be comforting or threatening.

'It's been fun.' The man by John's side said smiling down at John's trembling frame and slapping him hard enough across the face to make the chair rock back and forth.

'Don't please.' Sherlock asked but it was already to late as the three men mad their way out of the room.

There was a flurry of movement as the three men exited and ten complete and utter stillness.

'John are you alright?' Sherlock asked as he tested his restraints, twisting his wrists to try to get free.

'Just peachy, thanks' John replied, voice dripping with sarcasm. The truth was that he felt like someone had driven a knife into his stomach and was slowly twisting it and his head was throbbing painfully. 'Have you got a plan?' he asked while he twisted his hands, the thin strands of wool biting into his skin but refusing to break.

'I'm going to try to get out of these restraints and get you to a hospital but failing that I suspect it will be back to waiting again.' Sherlock grumbled.

Silence fell over the room as they both worked on getting free. John soon had to give up as the wool cut through his skin becoming even sharper as it soaked up the blood from his torn wrists and became smooth and sleek.

The shoelaces holding Sherlock to the chair were thicker and therefore did not cut as harshly but in return they bruised and were strong enough to not give at all as he pulled and twisted.

Time crawled by and the only change was that Sherlock's wrists became increasingly sore and John's shivers more pronounced.

'This is how Houdini died you know' John's voice was tired and resigned. He had his eyes closed trying to control the pain by breathing evenly through his nose.

'Tied to a chair in the British Library?' Sherlock was genuinely intrigued.

John smiled faintly 'He had appendicitis. Someone punched him in the stomach and ruptured his appendix. He refused to get treatment and it killed him' A shudder ran through John's body as he told the story and he opened his eyes to look tiredly at Sherlock.

The worry that Sherlock had been supressing by focusing on trying to get free returned with a vengeance. 'Is it ruptured?' he asked, wishing he could look inside his friend to evaluated the situation.

'Don't know. I can't tell without getting to a hospital, but it's a possibility.' John looked so tired and despite his best efforts to hide it Sherlock could tell that he was in pain. Sweat was beading his forehead and his breathing was becoming increasingly ragged.

'Sherlock, if I don't make it to closing time… it's been great…' there was a lump in his throat as he spoke holding back tears of sadness as well as of pain.

'Don't John, just don't' Sherlock snapped at his friend. His heart was beating strangely fast in his chest and he registered with something akin to surprise that he was in fact afraid. It was not the kind of adrenaline inducing fear that he had felt at Baskerville but rather a gnawing pain in the pit of his stomach, induced by watching his best friend grow increasingly weaker as the hours crawled by.


	3. Chapter 3

When the door suddenly opened to reveal a middle aged woman in a neat suit Sherlock was happier to see her than he could have put into words.

'Oh… oh dear.' She exclaimed and stopped dead in her tracks. Sherlock has no patience for her shocked hesitation.

'Call an ambulance…' he orders '… he has appendicitis and it may be ruptured' he nods to John who's glassy eyes are now fixed on the newly arrived woman.

She stands transfixed , not moving and Sherlock feels like shouting at her, telling her how very stupid she is being.

'Please.' John whispers in a weak voice and the woman starts toward him.

'Call first' John instructs and the woman fumbles hesitantly.

'I don't have a phone, I had to leave it upstairs.' She says apologetically. 'You can't take your phone into rare books.' She explains.

'Of coure not, you stupid woman. Why are you acting like an idiot.' Sherlock snaps rudely even though he knows that it is unproductive. He is just too frustrated to refrain from his usual insults.

'Go upstairs, call an ambulance and send someone down with scissors ' John Informed her, practical as ever.

The woman looked up at him with a terrified glare. 'Uhm… what do I tell the ambulance people?' she asked hesitantly.

'Tell them you have a case of appendicitis, possibly ruptured due to trauma to the abdomen. They'll know what to do' John told her his eyes slowly drifting shut as he spoke.

'Okay.' The woman nodded unsurely and disappeared out of the door.

It only took a few minutes before two men burst through the door with scissors held high. 'What the hell happened here' one of them asked as they split up and began to cut Sherlock and John free of their restraints.

As soon as Sherlock was no longer attached to his chair he crossed the room to crouch next to his friend. He gingerly placed a hand across John's forehead noting the beads of sweat rolling down his temples and the elevated pulse beating at his throat.

'You're burning up John.' He said with worry as he lifted John's hands to inspect the damage done by the wool around his wrists. There were shallow cuts around John's wrists marking the path where wool had cut into them.

'Come on, we should meet the ambulance. They'll have trouble getting down here.' the man next to John argued grabbing John's arm and trying to pull him upright.

The final bit of colour drained from John's face and he let out a strangled cry as Sherlock stood wrapping him gently in his slender arms.

'Don't touch him.' He snapped as he carefully supported his friend. 'I can carry you if you want.' He offered but John shook his head even as he leaned heavily against Sherlock's side allowing his friend to take almost all of his weight even if he is not technically carrying him.

By the time they reach the stairs John can't make it any longer and he clings uncomfortably to Sherlock as he allows his friend to hoist him into his arms and carry him carefully up the stairs. John's face goes an embarrassed shade of pink but he has no choice, his legs simply won't carry him any longer and he hides his red face in Sherlock's shoulder as he finds himself carried gently upstairs until they are met by two professional looking medics with a gurney.

'We'll take him from here.' One of them offers and even though it is in John's best interest Sherlock finds himself loath to let go of the man he has cradled in his arms. Releasing John into the calm care of the medics is much harder than Sherlock has expected, yet he lays him down on the brightly coloured gurney as gently as he can but instantly clasps his hand instead maintaining physical contact.

John doesn't seem to mind as he clutches at Sherlock's hand with a surprisingly strong grip. He doesn't say anything, doesn't complain but his face is contorted with supressed pain and Sherlock knows that things are decidedly bad. 'He has appendicitis, you need to get it out right away' he informs the medics who nod enthusiastically. 'We know already, the surgery is being prepared for him as we speak.' The woman next to Sherlock informs kindly as they lift John into the ambulance, allowing Sherlock to step in and ride along with them.

'Your boyfriend will be fine, we'll take good care of him.' She offers with a kind smile and since John doesn't correct her Sherlock doesn't either. He doesn't really mind what label people put on their relationship and being viewed as John's significant other is likely to make it easier to gain access to him at the hospital.

Once they arrive at the hospital John is whisked away swiftly leaving Sherlock standing on his own looking lost and unsure of what to do. A nurse guides him carefully to a family room where he sits with a group of other people who are evidently also waiting for relatives undergoing surgery.

It is nearly two hours before a man with long hair tied back under a cap arrives to inform Sherlock that John is now out of surgery. 'I'm really sorry but your boyfriend isn't doing as well as one would hope. He had waited surprisingly late to come in, his appendix had ruptured and infection has already set in.' the man informed looking almost a bit annoyed at John's late arrival.

'It's not his fault, he didn't have a choice, we were held captive.' Sherlock informs and the man looks decidedly confused clearly not understanding how the two men had ended up locked in a room, unable to get out. Some people were just so stupid Sherlock muses as he strides along next to the doctor relieved to see John even though he still looks very unwell and very unconscious.

'What's his prognosis?' he asks as he slumps in the plastic chair next to John's bed.

'We're giving him broad spectrum antibiotics, he should recover but I won't lie to you, there really is no guarantee. He's very ill, he has a severe case of peritonitis, that is an inflammation of his stomach lining. I'm really sorry but by the time he came in sepsis had already begun to set in, if only he had come in sooner.' The doctor says with a sad look and Sherlock refrains from telling him once again that it wasn't as though John had had any choice in the matter of not going to the hospital.

John wakes up briefly twenty minutes later but his eyes are glassy and he doesn't seem to recognise Sherlock as he tries to rouse him. He mumbles something that sounds like 'no mum don't…' and then goes back to sleep which doesn't do anything to calm Sherlock's worries. The heat coming of his friend is still alarmingly high despite the ice packs placed under his neck and, so Sherlock has been told in his groin which is thankfully hidden under a thin hospital sheet. His friend looks unpleasantly fragile as he lies in bed shivering with the fever caused by the infection holding his body hostage.

They transfer John to a proper room where Sherlock gains access to a somewhat more comfortable chair and is told that the phone by John's bed will be available for calls but they have to pay for them before John is released. Sherlock sits staring at John and wondering who he should call, who would John want to come and see him. He finds that he honestly doesn't know. There isn't a girlfriend at the moment and Sherlock doesn't have Harry's number and doubts that John would really want her presence even if he did. Lestrade's name flits briefly before him, he knows John and he are friends, that they go out together for drinks sometimes, and then it dawns on him, he hasn't actually told Lestrade about the thiefs and that settles it.

He is glad that he has such a good memory as he has Lestrade's mobile number memorised and can dial it in with ease.

'Hello, who is this?' Lestrade asks in answer to the call.

'It's Sherlock, can you come to UCH. I have information for you but I can't leave here. John's in critical condition, oh I should call Mrs Hudson, she would want to know…' Sherlock finally latches onto the one person who seemed to genuinely care for John and whom John in return expressed care for. Why hadn't he thought of Mrs Hudson straight away but then Lestrade's sharp intake of breath and worried, 'What happened?' makes him realise that his first instinct had been right as well, Lestrade cared about John too and Sherlock could hear the muffled sounds of him shrugging into his coat and making his way through the station, already heading out to make his way to the hospital.

'I solved it, the case and we got locked in the British museum. John's appendix burst. I'll tell you more when you get here, I have to call Mrs Hudson.' Sherlock offered suddenly very keen to inform their landlady of John's condition. He threw the phone down cutting Lestrade off mid sentence as he started to question what Sherlock had just said.


	4. Chapter 4

Lestrade finds Sherlock slumped in a chair next to his best friend and the look on his face is truly terrifying. It is a mixture of fear and fury which makes the otherwise either excited or angelic face twist in ways Lestrade did not know it could. He is curled up in his chair hugging his knees and staring at his friend's sleeping form in the hospital bed but when Lestrade enters he looks up.

'How is he doing?' Lestrade asks as he approaches the bed and places a hand gently on John's still one. This elicits a snarl from Sherlock and he quickly removes it again. He has the distinct feeling that in Sherlock's abnormal perception he has just done something absolutely unacceptable rather than just try to comfort an ill friend.

He has to alter that assumption as Sherlock moves his chair closer to John's bed and possessively takes a hold of his hand rubbing slow circles over the back of it. 'He's got peritonitis from a ruptured appendix which they seem to think is not the end of the world but he's also gone septic which seems to be more of a problem. I've read up. It appears they might have to put him on a respirator, or dialysis… and if he doesn't get better they may need to force feed him with a tube.' Sherlock's voice is more angry than frightened but Lestrade is not a fool, he can tell the great detective is upset.

'Sherlock, have you been googling this instead of asking the doctors how he's doing?' He asks with a bemused grin.

'Of course. The doctors won't tell me anything, they only say we have to wait and see.' Sherlock answers petulantly, and even though he knows it is inappropriate Lestrade lets out a small laugh.

Sherlock's eyes flick up immediately shooting daggers at the detective inspector. 'What's so funny.' He snaps angrily, the thumb rubbing the back of John's hand stilling for a second as he glares at Lestrade.

'You are.' Lestrade huffs but forces himself to supress his laughter. 'You don't have to attach yourself to the worst case scenario you know. You could just latch on to the thought that he will most likely be fine rather than panic over any little thing that might go wrong.' He argues but Sherlock does not look convinced.

'He might not though.' Sherlock argues defensively but suddenly the hand in his twitches slightly and he freezes instantly.

'John, can you hear me?' He asks enthusiastically and the grip on his hand tightens slightly as John blinks a few times before his eyes fall shut again. 'John look at me, are you alright?' Sherlock asks slightly frantically.

'I'm half unconscious in a hospital bed, what do you think Sherlock.' John mumbles and a vast grin plants itself across Sherlock's face.

'It's good to have you back.' He says stroking John's hair in a most uncharacteristic manner.

'Mm if you keep stroking me like that people will talk you know.' John huffs with his eyes still shut.

'Do you really think I care what other people think?' Sherlock asks and then looks up at the detective on the other side of the bed 'Besides, Lestrade is here and he's such a hopeless gossip that I doubt we have any chance of having my actions toward you secret for more than a day.' He continues at which Lestrade looks decidedly affronted.

'I'm not a gossip.' Lestrade argues angrily, 'Besides the two of you have been outed to the yard sine the first time you stepped onto a crime scene.' He grumbles forcing himself not to move over and touch the injured man in the bed next to him, he did not need those rumours getting out.

'Mm… I'm not gay…just… ow… please Sherlock… get a nurse… it really hurts… shit.' John moaned and it took Lestrade no more than ten seconds to utter a swift 'I'll get someone.' And throw himself out the door. A marvellous excuse to get out of the room whilst also making himself useful.

'Sherlock, what's wrong, did they not take it out? It shouldn't hurt this much.' John winces squeezing Sherlock's hand ferociously.

'Peritonitis, and sepsis they tell me. I think we're lucky you're even conscious.' Sherlock explains stroking John's temple despite the earlier admonition not to.

A nurse bursts into the room along with Lestrade a concerned look on her face. 'It's good to see you awake Mr Watson. I understand you're in pain. How bad on a scale of one to ten?' She asks brushing a hand over John's forehead to check if he was still running a temperature.

'Not a ten, not that bad, but bad… yes… eight… yes definitely an eight.' John hisses and Sherlock and Lestrade both frowned.

'That means ten to anyone who hasn't been shot.' Sherlock corrects and the nurse looks at him with confusion in her eyes. 'He was in the army, he got shot in the shoulder. He has a very high tolerance for pain so please take this seriously.' He continues ushering the nurse outside.

'Right now I really don't I assure you, it hurts like hell.' John corrects him with a tortured frown on his face.

'That's my point exactly. You complaining is most uncharacteristic, which means an eight almost certainly warrants a ten on any one else's scale. You keep translating the things I say that don't make sense to normal people so it seems only fair that I do the same.' Sherlock clarifies still maintaining a fierce hold on his friend's hand and face.

'I make perfect sense, it's other patients that have a faulty sense of how bad pain can be.' John explains but the tight grasp he maintains on Sherlock's hand belies his statement.

'When I say things like that you scoff at me John, don't make me laugh at you when you are this miserable.' Sherlock says and Lestrade is quite capable of seeing the pain mingled with the amusement that he is clearly trying to express.

'Sherlock, I'm not miserable, I'm sick and fuck… I'm gonna be sick.' John exclaims twisting out of Sherlock's grasp and promptly throwing up in front of Lestrade's shoes. Luckily there wasn't much in his stomach to throw up and all that came out was a small amount of green bile.

'Would you get some water Lestrade.' Sherlock asks as he gently eases a now slightly whimpering John back into the bed. The movement had clearly done no favours for the pain John had been experiencing earlier and there were now unconscious tears trickling down his cheeks.

Lestrade came out of the bathroom with a glass of water at the same time a doctor entered with a drip bag and a syringe. Both were equally surprised to find Sherlock slumped over John's bed brushing rears from his eyes with one hand, the other fiercely clamping onto John's hand.

'Oh dear, I'll send someone in to clean that up.' She assures, motioning to the floor as she moves over to the bed hanging the bag next to John and affixing it to the needle in his hand. Let me give you this and you'll feel better in a second. She assures him pushing the contents of the needle into the bag. 'I think we may have to start you on something you can control yourself. Have you ever had morphine before, do you know if you react well to it?' She asked

'Makes me terribly constipated, but that seems to be a normal complication.' John gasps, tears still rolling down his face. 'Better than being horrifically embarrassed though.' He clarifies wiping away the offending tears.

'John you're in terrible pain and running an alarming temperature. I think under the circumstances, tears are considered normal.' Sherlock says, taking the cup from Lestrade and presenting it to John.

'You wouldn't be saying that if it was you in this bed.' John argues and then breaths a sigh of relief as the first effects of the morphine start to work their way through his system. 'Oh, thank God, that's so much better.' He mumbles putting the glass of water down and allowing his head to rest back against his pillows.

He falls asleep to Sherlock's deep voice explaining to Lestrade what had happened at the British library and the soft feeling of long thin fingers carding through his hair. By the time an orderly arrives with a bucket and mop to clean up the mess on the floor he is already fast asleep.

**Well, I got constipated when on morphine so I'm basing that on my own experience…. Sorry John. **


	5. Chapter 5

Three hours after John had fallen asleep the doctor came back to check his monitors and to Sherlock's amazement said that he was doing well.

'He just woke up in horrific pain. How can you say that he is doing well?' Sherlock snapped at the man. Incompetent idiots the bunch of them.

'His blood pressure is up and his heart rate is down. Can you tell that he's breathing more easily?' The doctor asked.

Sherlock nodded but he couldn't help but push the doctor. 'What if he's breathing more easily because he can't feel the pain? And don't everyone's heart rate go down when they're asleep? He's still running a temperature.' He urges and the doctor smiles.

'It's normal to worry but these things are good signs. He's responding to the treatment for sepsis. Come here. Put your hand on his stomach, carefully.' The doctor orders and Sherlock is surprised to find himself obeying. 'Does that feel like his stomach normally does?' The doctor asks and Sherlock doesn't know quite what to say. He has no idea what John's stomach normally feels like.

'I can feel his muscles being tense.' Sherlock settles for. It's a non committal answer and the best he can really come up with.

'That's right. It's his body reacting to protect itself. You'd be surprised to find that it is actually quite soft now compared to when he came in. It means that the peritonitis is receding. Give it another six hours and then feel it again. You'll find it has gone even softer. Don't hold your hand there the whole time though, it will be harder to tell the difference.' The doctor instructs.

'But what about the pain?' Sherlock asks again his hand still lightly pressed against John's bandaged stomach.

'He's just had his stomach cut open and a piece of his intestine removed. That and he's suffering from a major inflammation of his insides. It was always going to hurt. It will ease off. Just give him time.' The doctor smiles replaces John's almost empty IV bag and leaves the room again.

Sherlock doesn't know if he wants to hug him or punch him. Even though he isn't supposed to use it he surreptitiously brings out his phone and quickly researches the symptoms the doctor had described. They seem to all been correct. He should have researched more of the symptoms of recovery as well as the possible complications. Well now he knows.

Against the doctor's suggestion he slips his hand back under the sheet on John's bed and rests it carefully over his stomach. Then he settles in to wait.

Waiting for John to come back from the brink of death shouldn't be boring but the case was solved. Sherlock had informed Lestrade of the three possible locations they could possibly be hiding after the breakin at the library and Lestrade had phoned up the hospital and left a message to inform him that they were now apprehended. That left Sherlock with nothing to do. Not really. There was the tentative study of recovery rates in patients with acute appendicitis but it was not exactly all consuming. Further more Sherlock was hungry, and exhausted. The case was closed and Sherlock's body had it's own internal rhythm, one that told him that, since the case was cracked, right now he needed to eat and sleep.

A nurse kindly brought him tea and biscuits but it wasn't really satisfying. By four in the morning John's temperature was markedly lower and Sherlock could tell that the doctor was right, John's abdomen felt just a tiny bit softer. Sherlock fell asleep in his chair with the rather frivolous question in his mind of whether John would end up feeling more pudgy than washboard if he kept his hand there long enough.

When John woke it was to a dull throbbing in his stomach accompanied by a very warm sensation and he felt a tinge of fear wondering if the wound was becoming infected. Then he blinked his eyes open and found that the warm sensation was not in fact internal as much as external and caused by Sherlock's hand rather intimately shoved under his sheet while the detective slept with his head on the side of John's bed. John was rather instantly awake.

'What the hell are you doing?' he asked poking the sleeping detective who sat up and swiftly removed his hand replacing it instead at the back of his own neck.

'Ow, my neck hurts.' He moaned. That had been a stupid position to sleep in, even for him.

'I asked you a question. What do you think you were doing?' John didn't know if he was angry, frustrated or just plain confused.

'Sleeping obviously.' Sherlock responded with a yawn.

'That is not what I meant and you know it.' John yelled but it didn't come out quite as strong as he would have liked it. Yes frustration was definitely the strongest sensation at this point and yelling was doing nothing for the pain in his stomach. 'Why, was your hand, under by sheet?' He asked trying to sound more calm.

'The doctor told me to. I was checking for rigidity.' Sherlock looked completely nonplussed. He did not seem to understand that your flat mate sleeping with his hand resting on your naked stomach might be construed as just the tiniest invasion of privacy.

'You weren't checking anything, you were asleep.' John told him sternly.

'It was an experiment. I just fell asleep during. Feeling you breath is surprisingly relaxing.' Sherlock shrugged and John really couldn't tell if Sherlock was trying to manipulate him or not. He couldn't read Sherlock and in the end his stupid git of a flat mate had performed more offensive experiments on John before.

He gave in. Instead of trying to come up with a suitable response he just shook his head a bit. 'Go and make yourself useful and go ask the nurses if I can have the nasal tube out and have a cup of tea. I suspect I don't have more than an hour before I'll need more morphine and I'm already feeling more than exhausted enough that the pain's the only thing keeping me awake.

'Are you in pain?' Sherlock asked with a frown.

'Of course I'm in pain. I suspect you are too going by that black eye. But the sooner I can start to eat again the sooner I will recover so go and ask the nurse if I'm allowed.' John ordered in what would have been a stern voice if it did not hitch ever so slightly in the middle.

Sherlock nods and disappears but returns soon enough with the doctor from the day before. He has a playful smile on his face.

'Ah, doctor. I was just wondering...' John started but the doctor held up a hand to stop him.

'Don't even try it.' The doctor chuckles. 'My name is doctor William Maples and I thought you were supposed to be a doctor too. A former surgeon no less.' He says and extends his hand to John who shakes it.

'Doctor John Watson.' John replies politely.

'Now what would you say to a patient who asks for the nasal tube out twelve hours after a laparotomy? What would you say to a patient who is supposed to be on nil by mouth after a major surgery who asks for food and morphine in the same breath?' He gives John a stern but kind look and John actually blushes.

Sherlock finds he actually doesn't mind this doctor. There is something about him, something that is just a little reminiscent of John himself. He isn't John of course, no one can be that but as doctors go he isn't as idiotic as most of them.

'I only asked for tea.' John tries apologetically.

'Well the answer is no.' The doctor says but he still has a kind smile on his face. 'I'm giving you some more pain relief and then 'Susan our head nurse will be I with some breathing and leg exercises for you. If that goes well you can go for a short walk around the room in the afternoon. ' He takes at breath and plunges on figuring it best to get it all out in one go. 'Now if that goes well, and only then and provided any liquids brought out by the tube look good we can remove the tube this evening. Tea will have to wait until tomorrow.' He says the last sentence with the firmness of a parent telling his child that it cannot have ice cream until after supper.

John nods and Sherlock can't help but smile at the effect Dr Maples has on John. He is rather forgetting the way the man had been able to get Sherlock to stop argue and follow orders the previous night.

'You should have been in the army. Would have made a great officer' John tells the doctor as he pushes a clear liquid into Johns drip.

'Nah, I'm a doctor so I get so spend all my days ordering people around anyway and I am the single parent of two teenage boys so I see enough conflict and sometimes even armed warfare to not need the army.' The doctor grins.

John laughs and then immediately regrets it when pain blossoms in his stomach. 'I know exactly what you mean.' He hisses with a glance at Sherlock who does not miss the insinuation.


End file.
